


my body's made of crushed little stars

by cultfilmx



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Cheating, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Character of Color, Mental Health Issues, Polyamory, Smoking, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8665222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cultfilmx/pseuds/cultfilmx
Summary: He’s new. He’s gotta be.He’s new cus he’s fidgeting, and I can tell he’s wary of my presence. But unfortunately for him this waiting room is a shoe box, and the session rooms are even smaller. He thinks I’m judging him. I used to think the same thing when I started therapy,  I thought everyone was silently eyeing me up, or trying to guess what was wrong with me. But people don’t give a fuck about your issues, they have their own.--to getting better, to being bitter, and to getting out of the house every once in awhile.





	

By the time I pop out of the stairwell and am walking the length of the third floor, I’m practically dripping. The city is scorching and my choice of full length jeans and a cotton t-shirt are far too heavy for this weather. Nothing worse than the slightly sour smell of your own armpit. Nothing worse than that evil little bead of sweat dragging it’s way down your spine, trickling down your pants and attributing to your gross swamp ass.

I am literally 58 seconds away from being late, so I’m fucking darting my ass down the hallway, sandals slapping loudly against the floor, large iced coffee balanced in my left hand, messenger bag with my laptop and textbooks swinging, and the look in my eye of a woman gone mad. With two more elephant-like struts, I take hold of the doorknob with my one free hand and give it an extra hard shove (there’s a note on the door that says “please push hard, door gets stuck”, so my action is totally warranted). 

The wind of the fan graces my face, and the sounds of soft classical music welcomes my ears. Fucking MADE it. I close the door behind me with my foot, and throw myself into the nearest seat. I can barely contain my heavy panting. After a moment, my face begins to cool off, but damn, does my body still feel like it’s on fire.

Fucking subway delays will be the death of me. God knows I’m late enough to everything, the subway just worsens it.

I suddenly realize that there is a guy sitting three seats over from me. Which I only mention because most of the people who come in here are women (not intended as a sexist statement, more as a general observation). I also mention this guy because he is someone I haven’t seen here before, and suddenly my anxiety takes the best of me: Was I here at the wrong time? Is this the right office?

I settle my drink down on the side table that’s loaded with a pile of lifestyle and finance magazines, and shift my swampy ass so that I can withdraw my phone from my back pocket.

Nope. 1:14. Wednesday. That seems about right.

I even google “what day and time is it” just to make sure my phone isn’t wrong.

It’s not. Guess he’s new.

I turn off my phone, knowing I should do so before my appointment, in order to respect my psychotherapist, myself, and the one hundred dollars a week that I spend attending this thing.

I realize I probably look crazy barging in like a human hurricane, so I try to, from that point on in, play it cool. I go to grab for my coffee, which I knock over , but manage to tip back upwards before anything spills. Nice. I then leisurely take a long sip from my drink, and try to sneak a look at this guy through the twists of my hair.

He’s scrolling, so he’s either Instagramming or Twittering. I slurp long and hard from my now watery coffee.

Or. He’s Tumblring.

He’s got the “I’m in a band” look, which if I were still 14-17, would be wildly attracted to, but alas, I’m a much more mature, cultured woman now. The “I’m in a band” look varies, but ultimately comes down to a few common elements: dyed hair, piercings, band t-shirt, scowl on face, and of course, tapping foot to a song that is not actually playing.

He sets his phone down onto his thigh and lets out a long, long, frustrated sigh, as he takes a look at the ceiling.

This action initially strikes me as strange until I realize that he totally notices I’m staring at him, and is trying to make it clear that he is very much unhappy about it.

I grab a magazine off of the coffee table and pretend to take a nice, long look at….Men’s Health…?

I try to make it as natural as possible, but of course, I’m now forced to pretend I’m interested in Men’s Health–probably something I give the least amount of shits about. How do I make this seem legitimate so that this guy doesn’t think I’m a total creepy asshole?

I take one more look, and am happy to find he’s back to scrolling, his expression forlorn and exhausted.

He’s new. He’s gotta be.

You can tell someone is new here by the way they sit; He’s fidgeting, is wary of my presence, and looks like his body might spontaneously explode at any moment. That, and he’s pissed that I’m even looking at him. But, unfortunately for him, this waiting room is a shoe box (with session rooms that are even smaller), so there aren’t many places to look in the first place.

He thinks I’m judging him–which I guess I sort of am. I used to think the same thing when I started therapy, I thought everyone was silently eyeing me up, or trying to guess what was wrong with me. But people don’t give a fuck about your issues, they have their own.

I mean, honestly, I’m so far up my ass and depressed that I could not care less about some little emo boy’s girl problems.

I feel like therapy veterans also have a particular vibe when we enter the waiting room. Those of us who have been here for awhile, such as myself, smile at one another when we exit or enter our sessions, drink lazily at our Starbucks, or just quietly read a book.

One of the therapists (couldn’t tell you her name if I tried, only know my own therapist’s name) sticks her head out of her office.

“Michael?” She asks, as if there’s a slight chance I may be Michael.

He grabs his jean jacket off the back of his chair, and enters her office (and I totally do not check out his ass as he does).


End file.
